


Night Muse

by Miso



Series: A War He Can't Forget [21]
Category: SCTV (Canada TV)
Genre: Fluff, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, M/M, POV First Person, Sleepy Cuddles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-17
Updated: 2018-01-17
Packaged: 2019-03-06 04:18:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13403301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miso/pseuds/Miso
Summary: Earl's thoughts about Floyd one evening, from the safety of their bed.





	Night Muse

**Author's Note:**

> WELP. i honestly really like this and i think earl would 100% be this sappy. also, look ma it isnt porn for once! canon to the vietnam storyline, from earl's pov because i feel like we need a cute little interlude like this. :c

To me, home is where ever Floyd is, but I still look forward to pulling into the driveway at the end of a long day and collapsing onto the couch we picked out together, in the home he generously opened up to me despite buying with his own money, and him kissing me hello while presenting me with a stiff drink. No matter how much I love our house, though, my favorite place in it is the bedroom.

Not just because of the killer sex we've had there (though it certainly doesn't hurt), but because no one else sees the Floyd Robertson I see when the bedroom door is closed and he's laying in bed beside me. It doesn't matter if we're naked and entwined or not; no one gets nighttime Floyd except for me. The bedroom is where he feels safest and it reflects in his behavior; maybe it's because when he was a child the one place he could retreat to safely was his bedroom. The closet, under the bed, anywhere his parents wouldn't find and hurt him. His bedroom was his safe haven.

Every night when he takes off his work clothes, or his street clothes, and changes into a ratty t-shirt and goofy pajama pants, or a set of flannels in the winter (or during a particularly rough mental health night), I can see the tension melt off his shoulders. He sighs heavily and lays back in bed and cocoons himself in the blankets, at least until I lay down beside him. Then he'll either take me in his arms or let me hold him close, depending on his mood. Sometimes we talk. Sometimes we don't. Either way, I get to spend some time with him, time that we're sorely lacking- even living and working together, we keep such radically different schedules that we only have weekends to spend as a couple, and sometimes not even that- and I cherish every second of it.

Some nights, we end up removing our barely-worn pajamas and making love, and afterward we fall asleep naked and sated and still wrapped up in each other. Some nights, he gives me this plaintive, almost nervous look, one I always recognize as a nonverbal plea for love, and I'll pull him close and stroke his hair and let him talk about whatever's bothering him. Sometimes he doesn't talk at all, and instead, he goes silent for a bit until I feel wetness on my neck and I know- just know- he's trying not to cry. I'll tuck him into my chest and stroke his hair and whisper to him that _it's okay, you don't have to bottle it up, go ahead and cry if you need to_. And as he sobs, I comfort him, dry his tears when he settles down, and kiss him goodnight as he dozes off, safe with me, where the monsters can't get him.

My absolute favorite, though, is when he's asleep and I can just look at him. He looks genuinely at peace when he's asleep. The lines and wrinkles that betray encroaching middle age aren't as obvious when he's sleeping. His brow uncreases and the frown lines at the sides of his mouth almost vanish. He's relaxed, not constantly fidgeting and surveying his environment to ensure that everything and everyone is in place and that it's safe to let his guard down (he never does anyway). His breathing is slow and steady. Sometimes, I watch his chest rise and fall with every breath. I'll gently put my hand on his chest and feel his heart softly beating away as he dozes.

Sometimes, I wonder why he picked me- of all the people on Earth he could have had- to propose to, to settle down with. Other times, I almost understand. Not physically, really, but emotionally. I'm his anchor, and he's mine. I know he relies on me for the love and affection he needs, but I don't think he fully realizes how much his returning that love means to me. He's turned my self-perception upside down. I used to think of myself as an undesirable, unintelligent, slightly overweight dork that no woman in her right mind would want, much less a man. I was doomed to perpetual bachelorhood, and I'd be that cranky old shut-in everyone whispered about. "Don't go near Mr. Camembert's yard. I heard he takes kids who trespass and feeds 'em to his cats," or something.

I'll fully admit that I worry about him endlessly, especially after "the incident." I'm still very careful about scissors, knives, even our razor blades, and I keep his medication in a locked box only I know the combination to, just in case. Even then, though, I can't imagine my life without him in it. Because of him, I've learned to tap into my nurturing side, I've discovered new things I never would've considered before. He's an active, outdoorsy sort, so he's gotten me into hiking. I love to spoil him, so I picked up baking. He's been playing most of his life, so I've taken an interest in basketball. I've even returned to old hobbies I haven't touched in years. I've picked up my old sewing kit to mend rips in hems and holes in his beloved blanket, I've been looking into rejoining a bowling league like I was in when I first moved out of my parents' house, and I'm collecting things again. I used to have a collection of little sheep knick-knacks that I packed away when I moved into my apartment. Come to find out he has a small collection of wolf-related bric-a-brac. Now they're proudly displayed side-by-side with just a touch of irony; after all, wolves and sheep are natural enemies, kind of like most people assumed us to be.

We've gone on trips and vacations I would never have dreamed of going on alone; Niagara Falls, rural Missouri, road tripping across the lower 48 (where he proposed to me somewhere in the Nevada desert), Los Angeles, Key West. We've decided to retire to Florida together, when the time comes. I can already picture us, cranky old shut-ins _together_ , sitting on the front porch of our little house in Key West and yelling at the neighborhood kids to get off our lawn. Personally, I can't wait.

Some people might accuse me of folding my entire identity into being his caretaker. I don't think I have. I think, all things considered, our relationship is pretty damn healthy. I just get to thinking when I'm looking at him on nights like tonight.

It's the dead of winter, and we're in the middle of a record-breaking cold snap. The furnace keeps us nice and toasty, though, and he's asleep beside me, curled up on his side, the blankets half on and half off his body. He grips his beloved security blanket in one hand- it's been a long night- and the other one lays open beside his head. His shirt's ridden up just a bit, offering me a peek at his belly, starting to develop a layer of fat over the defined muscles of an ex-military athlete. He's snoring, just a little, and it's turned into white noise at this point.

Outside, the wind howls through naked trees and power lines, but in our bedroom, our sanctum, we're safe and warm. I caress his cheek and kiss his forehead. He mumbles, but doesn't wake. In response, I sigh happily and pull him into my chest, the way he likes, and he stirs very briefly. He cracks his eyes open, blearily looks up at me, and makes a soft noise of acknowledgement before closing them again and going back to sleep. As he does, I apologize softly for waking him and rub his shoulder soothingly.

I could lay here and hold him all night, wide awake, and be happy. My eyelids are growing heavy, though, and sleep sounds nice. Work is closed, tomorrow, due to the extreme cold. I'll have plenty of time to lounge with him in the morning, when neither of us have anywhere to be and we can spend the day together. Content with the knowledge that he's safe with me, and the monsters can't get him, I let myself fall asleep with him.

Floyd Robertson is a blessing. I won't let him believe he's a curse. Not as long as I'm breathing.


End file.
